Under His Nose
by PlainSimpleGarak
Summary: Young teenagers can challenge any parent's perceptions; now four young turtles manage to confound their sensei with their odd behavior. This is Splinter's tale of how he learned to challenge his misconceptions of his son's actions. Young turtle fic.
1. Lesson One

A/N: This story is just a little bit of fun. I wanted to challenge myself to write in first person narrative, something which I usually don't like. So, being the supporting character fanatic I am, this one is a Splinter-fic. Constructive criticism is welcomed

The TMNT universe is a cross between the 2003 'toon and the 2007 movie. The turtles are several years younger than either cartoon or movie – around 13-14. It assumes that they have already forged a relationship with April. This is a very minor point, as she does not figure much into the story.

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**Under His Nose**

_Or 'what you see is not necessarily what you get'_

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**Lesson One: Something's Afoot**

It is funny how you sometimes fail to see things until they are right under your nose. Particularly funny when you pride yourself on being a perceptive old rat, but if there is one thing I have learned while raising these boys is that the first mistake is to become complacent.

Pride is a downfall even for the wisest of men, and this old rat knows that despite my patience there are times I sit and feel like patting myself on the back for a job well done. After all, raising four boys, all of them now teenagers, all of them trapped within the sewers of NYC and feeling outcast from the rest of the world is not easy. Even a humble man reflects at times and wonders if anyone else has noticed the labor he has gone through to keep this precious lair more than just a warm hole in the concrete – to shape it into a home. And finding precious few around to witness his achievements he decides to sit and congratulate himself. This was one of those times.

It had started off innocently. I had been watching my stories. Indulging as Donatello likes to say. He is proud of himself for being able to sneak large words into casual conversation, so indulging in stories is what I will say it was. It is not unusual for me to find the couch in a state of utter disarray. Despite training my sons to adhere to all virtues of ninjitsu, including harmony with one's environment, they do not find the subtle harmony in having straight couch cushions. Then again my back finds no harmony in slipping down into the framework of the backside of the couch and my sons have shells to protect them from such a mishap. So straightening the cushions is part of my ritual, gladly preparing the couch before tea and stories.

Nor is it unusual to find things stuffed in the couch. I would swear Michelangelo thinks that the space between the armrests and the springs is his own personal locker space. I had, at one time, considered getting lockers for my sons when I found them in the junkyard. I was torn between the idea of giving them each a personal space beyond their rooms, something that would stand in full view outside the dojo to be a beacon of their own personality; and leaving them there because they represented a facet of human life that my sons could not join in. In the end I left them there because I could feel the pull my sons had towards the outside world, and I did not wish to tease them with a part they could not fully join. At quiet times I wonder if I made the correct decision. Such are even the simplest decisions with my sons, for I do not always know what will make them feel more at ease in this odd subterranean life.

Ah, yes, but we were speaking on things hidden in the couch. I have found his CD player, batteries, Hostess Twinkies with and without their wrappers, VHS tapes, notebooks and all other sorts of things in the cushions of the couch, so one more package stuffed in the crevice was not unusual. Yet certain things make a father's whisker's twitch. Michelangelo is the sort to leave his life lying in a debris strewn path after him, but the debris is almost always mundane. Yet that day I pulled a small Ziploc bag full of matches from the cushions.

Matches were unusual, at least for my youngest son. While Donatello is allowed to use them for his experiments under my supervision, Leonardo enjoys lighting the candles for meditation and I have seen Raphael steal off with some to light a stick of incense, waving it about at night trying to use the glowing ember at the tip to write his name in the air before trying to use the selfsame ember to light the toilet paper on fire, Michelangelo has not been interested in matches. I try to steer my sons away from dangerous activity, partially because I fear they are growing up too fast, and partially because our lair was difficult to find and I have worked hard these past thirteen years to make it a home. A careless fire could take out too much too quickly; and they just don't make insurance policies that cater to giant rodents and their terrapin brethren. So it wasn't strictly that matches were forbidden, but more that I tended to keep them in my care to be used under my supervision. So, I wondered, what were they doing stuffed down into the couch?

This matter would wait until after stories, for my youngest was running off his morning energy with his brothers under the pretension of 'cardiovascular training' (another long word I borrowed from Donatello). It would do no good to stir him up, for truth rarely pours out of a shaken ewer. So I watched Darla get into a foolish argument with her husband and be comforted by Brian while Glenda and Kevin got hit by a drunk driver. I reminded myself to catch the next episode because Kevin was one of my favorites and I hoped he was alright. His carefree smile reminded me of my youngest son.

Which returned my mind to the matches. As my children shuffled in, sweaty and panting, Leonardo grabbed towels from the kitchen, handing one to each of his brothers. Michelangelo and Donatello accepted, as expected, and Raphael denied. The look in his eyes said more than his words, it said he could get his own towel. _ 'Ah, Raphael_,' I thought to myself, '_we will need to have a talk about this nagging tendency of one-upsmanship you have with your eldest brother._' But then was not the time. I rose up and cleared my throat.

"My sons…" I waited until their attention was upon me. "Have any of you lost something in the couch recently?" My eyes scanned their faces and I caught little glimpses of panic. I wondered what was going through their minds. Even Raphael stopped tugging a towel from the upper bar and weakly accepted the one in Leonardo's hands as he turned his gaze to me. I felt my brows furrow in confusion as Michelangelo opened his mouth.

But it was Donatello who stepped forward and spoke. "I am sorry, sensei. I had left a bag of matches on the coffeetable and they must have gotten moved onto the couch and slipped between the cushions."

I blinked, watching my stalwart son explain as he put his hands together. "Donatello, have I not said you may get matches from me when you need them?" He nodded in assent. "Then why bring more matches into the lair?"

He knit his brows beneath his purple bandana, "I thought that it was a bother, sensei. I asked April to bring me some so I wouldn't have to disturb you."

That gave me pause. I must admit they are growing up quickly, but I still hold on to their supervision. I enjoy Donatello coming to me for some supplies so I can ask what he is working on, check on him so I know he is safe and not getting lost in his experiments. I realize I do this for all of my sons, I keep some small thing in my possession, and require them to come to me to get them. I use this as a way to connect with them. Sit them down and talk to them comfortably – for after all they have already come to me.

I swallowed and felt a small lump in my throat. "Donatello, it does not disturb me at all. Matches are a small thing; and I do worry that they can be dangerous. I trust you, my son, but be careful with small things. It is when we stop being cautious that trouble finds us." I stretched my paw out and dropped the bag into Donatello's hands.

He nodded and looked up at me, with an expression of relief. "I promise I will be careful, sensei."

For a second all four brothers breathed as one, and then they began to mop sweat off of their brows. I turned back to Michelangelo, not quite willing to let him off the hook just yet. "My son, were you going to speak?"

I watched my youngest bite his lip and then nod. "I was only gonna say that I stuffed them in my hiding spot because I thought you might get mad."

I could not help but chuckle at this, which prompted my youngest to grin back, and soon all brothers indulged in a short laugh. They wandered out of the kitchen to stretch and shower, meditate and read comic books. That night the lair was quiet.

As I reflect on the entire affair, I should have known something was up. I have learned many a lesson from this incident, and the first is: whenever all of my sons are getting along together, something is afoot.


	2. Lesson Two

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**Lesson Two: The First to Speak**

It was fairly late in the evening when I was stirred from my meditations. After the time I would like my sons to go to bed, but I understand that they are getting older and they do not usually sleep when they are sent to bed. Usually I ignore some of the noises that filter to my ears – the shuffling of pages, the bouncing of balls, the soft clatter of parts being extracted from an old radio. None of this bothers me.

But when I heard voices hushed and tense through the halls - that roused my attention.

I stood, stretching slightly and walked to the door. Light poured from under the bathroom door, and I could make out the conversation within.

"Hold still Raphael. I just need to wash it." The voice was very soft.

"Ow, OW! Dammit, Donnie, I can do it myself. That hurts."

There was a pause and Donatello's voice came out more urgently. "Keep it down, Raph. We don't want Master Splinter to hear."

I sometimes wonder why they do not wish for me to hear. I try to let it be known that they may come to me for anything, but I am starting to learn that as they grow they seek rebellion. Perhaps it is simply the wish to stand on their own without having to come to me for help, perhaps all this television they watch fills them with the idea that parents will punish them for doing so. Either way, I am alert and slightly amused. They would cringe to know exactly how much I do hear.

Raphael's voice returned with a muttered sigh and a groan of toleration. The voices were quiet again, and I could hear the medicine cabinet being opened and closed. My whiskers twitched in worry. _What have they been up to? _I strode out of my room, into the living room and took a seat on the couch.

The bathroom door opened very slowly, and a green head poked out. I could hear Donatello's voice advising "We should go back to bed before Master Splinter wakes up."

The green head turned towards the living room and I smiled at the bandana-less face as it caught my eyes. Slowly my son frowned and opened his mouth. "Aw, sh—" he trails off and shook his head. "Too late, Donnie" he muttered, straightening up and walking outside. Raphael nodded his head fractionally at me. "Master."

I perked a brow, noting that my son is being very careful with his manners this evening. Donatello filed out of the bathroom and stood beside his brother. I gave them both a nod, quickly checking them over. "My sons, I could not help but overhear your discussion. Was there an accident?"

Donatello opened his mouth to speak and Raphael interrupted him before he could get the words out. "No, Master, I was just trying to help Donnie fix something. He said he needed a second pair of hands."

I perked a brow, watching them exchange glances. There was a glower on Raphael's face that seemed to say 'I told you this was a stupid idea.' But his words were controlled. "And did you hurt yourself?" I prompted.

That time it was Raphael who seemed to want to speak, but Donatello whose voice came out. "Just a small burn, Master. I should have disconnected the batteries of the radio and not just the outlet. There were a few sparks."

I furrowed my brows a bit, unwilling to let either off the hook just yet. "Raphael, are you ok?"

He folded his arms in front of his chest, squaring his shoulders. "I'm fine." He replied, gruffly. His face had set itself in its most stubborn expression, and I feared that more questioning will only lead to an ill-advised fight and a subsequent grounding for him and a nagging headache for me; so I lean back in my seat and abate my questions. I saw bandaids twined around his first finger and thumb, so my worry clears somewhat. I watched them carefully, my eyes focused on Donatello to see if he would volunteer any more information, but his dark eyes were shielded from me.

Giving a soft sigh, I raised my hand. "Perhaps, my sons, you should be off to bed." I flicked a gesture in the direction of their bedrooms. Both nodded and exchanged glances before they gave me a soft 'Hai sensei' in unison and shuffled off to their respective beds.

I sat on the couch for very many long minutes after that, wondering if there was something I had missed. There are times when even the master wonders if he has not been careful enough, or in reverse is he being too careful? Was I worrying needlessly, or were my sons really trying to keep some secret from me?

I resolved to look for an answer in the morning.

**xXx**

Morning found me puttering in the kitchen. Usually my hands find a steady, concentrated series of tasks to accomplish. But this morning I decided to simply let the tasks come to me. There were dishes to put away, towels to change and I started to wonder who in their right mind leaves half a cup of cereal in each and every box without finishing it off. With a sigh of resignation, I opened the largest box and poured all of the remnants into one bag.

As I scooped tea into a mesh strainer and put a pot of water on to boil I heard movement - careful footsteps that are trying to be quiet and fade into the woodwork. _It must be Leonardo, _I think to myself. I suspect he has been getting up early for some months now, meditating or training by himself before breakfast. It has become a challenge for me to hear his footfalls in my chambers. Each day they get a bit lighter and evasive to the ear; and each day I strain a bit harder to keep track of them. It is small challenges like this that make me feel quite young again, striving to re-master the simplest lessons of ninjitsu. But that morning the footfalls do not lead to the dojo; or the library room where I teach them meditation, but they led farther back into the lair where Michelangelo and Raphael sleep.

I poured my tea, watching the steam rise as tiny bits of the leaves float down. It is meditative to watch, and I usually take my morning meditation at this time, but curiosity gets the better of an old rat, and that day I sat in the kitchen. The footfalls quieted and for a time my mind drifted to memory. The tea reminded me of watching snow fall in a snow globe. I had found one once, unbroken, in a dumpster of an apartment building. My sons watched it raptly for hours that first night. Michelangelo in particular enjoyed watching the snow settle, and he would pester Raphael in particular to shake it for him. Because while all of my other sons would simply tip the globe upside down and the place it right side up again, Raphael had to shake it until it resembled a miniature snowstorm. And that was what Michelangelo enjoyed watching most of all. I was very fond of watching Raphael protest that he didn't want to shake the globe for his brother; for despite his irritation at being disturbed I could see a hidden inner pride. I still see this pride peeking out beyond a tough mask whenever my youngest deems him better than his brothers at anything, even small skills.

I was about to search my memory for what happened to the snow globe when I heard a faint crash, and the voice of my youngest filtered through the walls.

"C'mon Leo… five more minutes."

My eldest made a soft shushing sound. "Mike, the kitchen won't be free for long. Come on, I need your help."

Michelangelo groaned and I can hear him roll out of bed. Unlike my eldest, his footfalls are quite heavy in the morning and they get lighter and lighter as the day grows on. My eyes flickered to the kitchen clock. My tea had grown cold and I realized that I usually meditate in my chambers at that time of day. _Were my sons planning to get into the kitchen without my knowing?_ I wondered. _What could they possibly be looking for?_ I rose and walked just outside the kitchen leaning lightly against the pillar where the phone hangs like ivy sits on a wall.

Leonardo poked his head out first, looking out from the hallway with a solemn nonchalance that I found quietly amusing. It reminded me of when a small kitten sits in a sunbeam with its chest puffed out in imitation of the adult cats. Behind him my youngest yawned and dragged his feet. Quietly both turtles made their way to the kitchen, focused on their goal. I thought to myself that my sons are alarmingly single minded at times, and perhaps I should start training them to be more aware of their environment; including when their father is standing outside of the kitchen. I was not being obtrusive, but I was not hiding either.

My eldest enjoys order and he is fond of schedules. This is both a strength, for it keeps him focused and highly motivated, and a weakness. That day he counted on my schedule to set me in my meditations, and it blinded him to the truth. I resolved to remind him to not be caught by surprise.

The sound of cabinets being opened and drawers being pulled out filled the kitchen. I leaned forward far enough to see Leonardo scribbling something on a notepad while Michelangelo had crawled up on the counter to search through the top cabinets. "Dude, I swore I hid it up here…"

Leonardo put a finger to his mouth, looked back towards my room and wrote on his pad again. "Can we get more?"

"It was hard to find." I heard him search through the topmost cabinets and then climb back down. "I swore I had put it up there."

"Let's not worry about it right now, and concentrate on what we need." My eldest chided. I could see Michelangelo point at something on the pad, and his brother nodded, but neither spoke. It almost seemed as if there was some secret hanging between them that both were unwilling to put into words. I deemed it was time for this rat to make his entrance. I stretched and strolled into the kitchen.

"Sensei!" Leonardo yelped, straightening up and putting the pad behind him.

Michelangelo looked up and an innocent smile crossed his features. "Hey there, sensei!" he remarked cheerily, if sleepily. "You're out here early."

I gave a slow nod. "As are you my sons." I forced a small grin across my muzzle. "What brings you up so early?"

Leonardo opened his mouth. "We were--"

"I wanted to make pancakes, Sensei." Michelangelo's bright eyes were wide and clear. I blinked, turning from one son to the other. It was very hard for me to see deception in those clear blue eyes.

"Pancakes?" The word rolled around my mouth as if it was foreign. I turned to look at my eldest. "I did not know you were comfortable in the kitchen, my son."

He shifted from foot to foot and then stood still. "I'm not. But I wanted to make sure that Mikey didn't use up any of our supplies. Last time we ran out of eggs, and Raph got into a fight with Mike about it." His eyes flickered around as if he was thinking very quickly. "That and someone had to get him up early."

A hint of amusement traveled through my eyes, despite my worry. Most of my sons are beastly to rouse from their sleep. "I understand, my son." I paused, watching them start to relax, before adding, "but why sneak out here so early?"

My youngest had settled into a small pout. "Because it was gonna be a surprise, Master Splinter."

This time his innocent answer did bring a smile to my eyes. "My son, if pancakes are your hearts desire, I can go back to my meditations and be surprised." I was rewarded by a bright grin from my youngest. I paused and started to head towards my room before I turned back, letting my gaze fall on Leonardo. "My son… what do you hide behind your back?"

He snapped his gaze to me and bit his bottom lip. "Just a list, Sensei." Sucking in a breath, he took the pad out and held it sheepishly forward. I reached out and gently grasped it in my claws.

True to his story, the pad read: _eggs, milk, flour; _all written carefully at the top. At the bottom were a few messy scrawls: _magnesium, wax, van? Large bottle. _My brow furrowed, and as if he were reading my thoughts Leonardo added, "the bottom notes are from Donatello."

"I see." I gave a small nod and handed the pad back before heading out for my meditation. "I shall look forward to the pancakes my sons," I called before I left.

I settled down to think, and found that I had opened up many more questions that I had answered; and upon reflected on my conversations with my sons, I realized my second lesson of this affair: The truth does not lie in the first to speak, but the first to open his mouth.


	3. Lesson Three

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**Lesson Three: Meeting Expectations**

When my sons were very young I spent many hours hiding in the unseen nooks and crannies of the underground, listening to the conversations of humans as they traveled about their business. I considered it research and I picked up some intriguing opinions on how they lived their life. Some were not relevant to my family for we certainly did not drive a car nor have a mortgage, but some bits I took to heart. Not in the least were the words of an older woman speaking to her younger daughter about raising her grandchildren: 'Remember that just when you think you know everything children will surprise you.' she cautioned, chuckling. 'They are smarter than you give them credit for.'

I have never forgotten these words, and have found them to ring true over many years.

To their credit Michelangelo and Leonardo did fry up an impressive stack of pancakes, which delighted even the dourest of my sons into pleasant breakfast conversation. The lull of their voices engaged in planning big dreams and new projects was enough to quell my uneasy mind for the morning, and focus my thoughts for their training. When I look back on the day, I realize that the events that unfolded next were played like a virtuoso, as if scripted by a master playwright. I had not given enough credit to my sons' ability and intuition and certainly not enough credit to their willingness to work together to pull the wool over their father's eyes.

Training started with our basic routine: warm ups, flexibility exercises, strength training before they switched focus to true ninjitsu techniques. Each day I try to focus on different skills that play to each of my son's weaknesses and strengths, cycling the routine to test each one and force them to improve. As they grow I find that as one son is weak in a certain area one of his brothers will find strength in the same. I consider this a good thing for it prompts growth through challenge - each brother wishing to best his peers. But it can also lead to some heated emotions when one fails. Today we practice stealth, and I know this is a particular weakness of the most hotheaded of my sons- so I was prepared for a conflict. Perhaps I was even expecting it.

It is funny that they say you often get what you expect – for it is usually true.

The lesson is simple. To blindfold the center defender and make him listen to the movements of those around him. Each of my sons gets their turn in the center, listening, pinpointing and finally defending against the other three. Leonardo shines at this exercise, for long has he been practicing to cover his footfalls and yet hear the movements of others. Michelangelo shines at the former but his restlessness makes it difficult for him to hear the movements of his brothers until they are on top of him while Donatello is nearly the opposite. He struggles to keep his footfalls light but he has great focus to listen and pinpoint his brothers, which keeps them at bay. Raphael is strong and his balance is unchallenged, but his movements are heavy. He is slowly developing patience, but he too often jumps the gun and misjudges where his brothers are in the dark. These are always tough lessons for him, and I am sensitive to this.

It was Michelangelo who first brought up the idea of a challenge, playfully saying that he could 'tag Leo more times than anybody else.' While Donatello seems overall immune to these taunts, Raphael thrives on challenging himself – particularly against his brothers. I was not surprised to hear a call of 'you're on' from him. I sighed a bit, inwardly fearing an argument down the road. And that, truly, was my downfall. I had not counted on my sons to be able to so readily read my worries. I thought I kept myself implacable and serene. I watched as Michelangelo made a comical show of sneaking up on Leonardo with exaggerated movements straight from Saturday morning cartoons, and yet breaking into his buoyant ninjitsu moves when necessary to confuse his older brother. Darting backwards and forwards until he was upon Leonardo, finally planting a light hit on his brother's shoulders and another to his shins before the elder had a chance to fully recover. I heard Raphael groan, knowing that his own attack had left him on the ground at the mercy of Leonardo's wooden bokken.

The rest of the training had a similar thread, finally ending in a light quarrel as Michelangelo planted a hit on the back of Raphael's head and he turned swiping out to blindly catch air time and time again as my youngest nimbly dodged the blows. Finally his brother ripped off his blindfold and yelled in frustration, starting towards Michelangelo in a rage, only to be held back by Leonardo. This was the farthest the quarrel got before I called out and stepped in to settle them. I sighed, understanding the frustration my son was feeling, but also knowing that discipline must be held. I bid Raphael to stay after, practicing his footwork for stealth an extra ten minutes and afterwards I wished to speak with him. I hoped this would be enough to calm his mind and not to dwell on his failures. His brothers shuffled out to tend to their chores and I waited outside of the dojo, carefully counting the minutes.

Usually when Raphael trains I can hear him breathing very heavily. He puts his heart and soul into his training - exerting himself past the limits his brothers push themselves to, particularly when he is frustrated. Yet this day his breathing was difficult to discern. The heavy panting after exercise faded to a lull of calm. I could hear his footsteps, still not as light as his brothers, but fading. I sighed, thinking that if he could release his anger and approach training calmly he would excel at so many aspects he struggles with. I could hear his improvement even as I waited. As the time came due, I stepped inside and called his name.

"Raphael…" My brows went up as his body jumped slightly. His back was turned to me and as he moved to face me a frown etched across his face. He lowered his head.

"Sensei…"

I sighed a bit, seeing frustration still well within his eyes. His voice was heavy and yet if I had followed my ears I would have noticed that still his breathing did not match his expression. But I was too caught up in counseling my son, resolving the argument I had prepared for. "I listened to your training just now. You show a marked improvement when you repeated the movements." I smiled lightly, encouragingly.

He scuffed at the floor of the dojo lightly. "Don't matter if you still get hit, does it sensei?"

"Ah, but if you can practice against others with the same clarity you have while training alone you will succeed in your goals." I replied, moving over towards him.

Raphael's face seems to be in a sea of conflict, as if he had an answer for me but was pondering another. The tempest of teenage emotions rolled through his eyes and he put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "The lesson is stupid. Mike treats it like a game and we always have the same outcome."

I tried very hard to not let the frown I felt display on my face. "There are lessons in every activity – even games, my son."

There was an odd tinge in his eyes – a gaze I realized only later was apologetic. He shook his head at me and asked to be dismissed, and I allowed him to go and think on my words. At the time I remember clearly thinking that teenagers were frustratingly unpredictable, and hoped that his anger covered an understanding of the problem. Now I understand that my son is far more perceptive than I gave him credit for and had banked on my expectations of his actions. I fell for this ruse hook, line and sinker.

**xXx**

It was early evening, just after supper when chores and training were done. This is when my sons are allowed their free time, and I usually spend my night roving through the lair, making sure that their free time means they are not destroying anything. I had stopped in the kitchen, speaking for a short while with Donatello while I made my evening cup of tea. He was telling me about a radio he was fixing and I smiled, allowing him to go to his workshop and continue repairing it.

In the main room I could hear Raphael and Michelangelo arguing about what superhero was the coolest, and I stifle a chuckle. My boys are sometimes so much like any other child – even down to squabbling over who could take out more badguys: Wolverine or Superman. And while I chuckled I also stood and hurried over. A squabble at this time of night usually accompanied a fight over the remote. It did not matter that we had one small television salvaged from a curbside that only picked up four snowy channels down here. The choice of what channel to watch was always a problem.

"Come on, dude, he's the man of steel!" I heard my youngest protest, and turned the corner to watch him wave the remote above his head.

Raphael was shaking his head, looking for a good opportunity to strike. "One word, Mikey: Kryptonite. Besides, Wolvie's got adamantium claws."

"Adamantium, shmadamantium." I knew this game, watching my youngest as he played it. The verbal sparring was calculated misdirection, each brother trying to get the other one off balance mentally or physically. "Supes can fly, bro!" He shook his head a bit, "besides we already saw the X-Men movie and channel 26 always gets snowy."

I could almost hear Raphael roll his eyes, without seeing it I can imagine the expression as I heard him groan, "all right, Mike." I heard his body flop down into the couch and add in a warning tone, "But no channel surfing during the commercials."

"Alright, deal!" I smiled. My youngest boy's grin practically shone across the room as the debate was settled and peace floated over the main room. I took in a long breath and felt my old joints relax. It was a perfect time to take a stroll through the lair. I smelled the scent of incense as I passed Leonardo's room. Watching him practice his meditative techniques brings a smile to my muzzle, he reminds me of myself when I was young.

Continuing on I felt the floor grow cool under the pads of my feet and I poked my head into Donatello's workshop. He has his tongue stuck out in concentration, focused deeply in the inner workings of a radio. I waited until he paused in his work to call out his name and he turned brightly to me. "Hello Father!" he called, waving me over. "Come see… I think I can get this to work!"

His excitement brought a faint dew to my eyes which I blinked away to come see what he was up to. He had stripped several wires to show shining copper beneath and was in the process of labeling all of them. "What was wrong with it?" I queried, allowing him to explain.

"Well, see here, Father? This wire has been wrapped around this metal piece." He gestured to the inner workings, "and it was almost cut through, so power wasn't getting to the transistors. But I cut the bad part off and I think I can rewire it!"

"That is very clever, my son." I let a proud grin slide into my expression. "Did the books April brought you help?"

He gave an enthusiastic nod. "I just wish she could bring newer ones. The books the library has on discard are pretty outdated."

"She will be coming later in the week. We can speak with her then." I assured. April has been very kind in bringing our family things from the outside world. Stacks of discarded library books were one of the first glimpses I could give my sons of the outside world.

Donatello's expression brightened. "April's coming? That's…" his thought was cut short but the sound of a muted crash and then Raphael's angry shout of 'MIKEY!'

I could see concern filter through Donatello's face. As I stood I placed a paw on his shoulder. "Do not worry, my son. I will tend to them. You can continue work on your radio."

"Thank you, Father." I could hear him murmur as I hurried back to the main room. The closer I got, the more I could hear and the faster I pushed my legs to carry me.

"What's going on?" Leonardo's voice called sharply.

"Oh, I don't know… Not like Mikey thought it would be funny to sneak up on me." Raphael's voice was hot and sharp.

"I didn't think you would freak!" My youngest protested, his voice ringing with a high-pitched innocence.

"You wanna see freak? I'll show you freak." It was Raphael's threat that made me break into a run.

I could hear Michelangelo yelp, And Leonardo's voice was piercing, "Raph, stop it!"

"YOU stop it, Leo. Get your hands off me!"

As I entered the room I called Raphael and Leonardo's names in the most demanding tone I can muster, which brought both boys' attention directly to my face. Had I been on the scene a moment sooner I might have rethought that course of action because when I fully entered the scene I saw I caught them mid-fight, their hands wrapped around one another's arms in a stubborn grapple. The shift in their attention prevented blows, but knocked the both of them off balance and I watched as they both toppled towards the ground. Raphael fell first, taking out a side table with his shell as he fell, with Leonardo rolling after him and hitting the floor to his side. Michelangelo was off behind the couch frozen in a tense stance. I slowly took in a breath, walking forward past the splinters of shattered wood, and chunks of broken glass, towards my sons as they untangled themselves from the floor.

I took several deep breaths when they came to their feet, watching their eyes fall to the floor. "What happened?" I asked in the most even tone I could muster, despite knowing the basic shape of events.

"Sensei, I am sorry…" Leonardo started quickly.

"I thank you for your apology, Leonardo, but I asked for an explanation." I reminded him lightly. I watched red flush into his beak and he took a breath.

Surprisingly, Raphael – who usually keeps quiet until words are dragged out of him – spoke up. "Mike decided it would be smart to practice his ninja techniques by sneaking up and trying to toss water on me. And I actually heard him." He picked his chin up a bit defiantly.

My youngest turned to me with innocence pouring from his wide blue eyes. "I thought it would be funny." He sighed a bit and added in an undertone, "until Raph hit me."

"Not my fault you couldn't hold on to the glass!" My red-clad son snapped back.

"That was no reason to go after Mike!" Leonardo got his two cents in.

"And it was no reason to come after me!" Raphael turned towards his brother and I could see tension refill his muscles. I sighed and put a hand up.

"My sons!" I waited until they had all focused towards me. "First of all, are any of you hurt?" I was greeted with three negative shakes of their heads. "Now each one of you is as much a part of this as the others."

"Master!" Leonardo protested sharply, and then swiftly fell silent as my gaze fell upon them.

"Michelangelo." I watched as my youngest turned towards me. "You must learn what is humorous and what is hurtful. While a well-taken joke is always welcome, an unfunny joke creates anger and pain."

He sighed and bit his bottom lip. "I am sorry, Father."

Michelangelo is earnest, and I can see realization dawn in his eyes. But what is broken must be repaired. "You will clean up the glass, and you will help April with cleaning her store basement this weekend to pay off getting a new one."

"Yes Father." He dipped his head and hurried off to the kitchen to fetch a broom and dustpan, as my attention turned towards Raphael.

"Raphael." I watched his eyes rise to meet mine, and somewhere in the back of my mind I noted he had the same odd expression he had worn this morning in the training room. "Frustration is understandable, but why did you feel it necessary to retaliate against your brother."

He snapped his mouth open quickly to respond, but the words were slow and sluggish. "I… well…" he settled his arms over his plastron. "He deserved it." The words were harsh, but the tone betrayed a lack of commitment to the sentiment.

I felt my brow perk and I asked again, "do you really believe that?"

Raphael waffled a bit, and I saw him shift from foot to foot before finally conceding, "I dunno. I was just mad."

"Anger always causes need for repair, my son." I said quietly, and gestured to the broken chunks of wood that lay scattered on the floor. "I wish for you to gather the pieces of this table and reassemble them. As you do, I wish for you to meditate on the effects your actions cause. When you are done I want you to apologize to your brothers." I was faintly surprised when my son accepted this without argument. He gave an assent and dropped to his knees, collecting the broken pieces.

Lastly I turned to my elder who was standing before me in an unusually defiant pose. "Leonardo, why did you enter this argument?"

I watched him take in a breath, "I was going to stop Raph…"

I held up a hand and cut him off. "Adding to an argument does not improve it."

"But he and Mike were fighting!" His words were clipped and impudent, as if he did not want to admit to doing wrong.

"I understand this, Leonardo. But adding your voice to a cacophony does not make it any more harmonious."

"That's not fair, Master!" he retorted quickly and I felt my fur bristle.

"Leonardo!" I barked, puffing out my chest to assert my parental authority. "You will go to your room and calm down. I will speak with you when your head has cleared."

He gave me a look of annoyed insolence but kept his mouth shut. For Leonardo, growing pains have hit the hardest and he struggles with seeking a leadership voice and yet learning the finesse of being a leader. He does not tolerate failure in himself, and I can see this hit home as he turned and silently walked down the back hallway.

The main room was painfully quiet as Michelangelo cleaned the glass, Raphael cleaned up the pieces of his table and I slowly sunk down to sit on the couch.

**xXx**

The rest of the night slipped by. I watched Raphael head to get the wood glue and then slip back to his room to work. I sat by Michelangelo for quite some time, watching the end of the movie and comforting my youngest, giving him quiet advice. And finally I made my way back to my eldest room with a pot of tea to sit and have a long talk about leadership and decision-making. All three of my sons were unusually quiet, ranging from apologetic to almost sorrowful. As I headed back out into the main room to wash dishes I could hear them speaking quietly to one another in the back bedroom area. Sometimes I do not know what spirit possesses them to fight, for hours later they can return to being the best of friends. I returned to the back bedrooms to check on all three once again, finding Michelangelo deep in reading, Leonardo pacing and Raphael absorbing in puzzle piecing the side table together. I sighed, enjoying the slow silence that was washing over our home.

**xXx**

"Donatello?" My whiskers quivered, hearing the motions in the main room as I headed back there. The scrambling of feet and hands punctuated the lack of response, which was only called back when I started to enter the room.

"Goodevening Master Splinter." He dipped his head to me as I approached, hands folded neatly behind his back. He was standing by the closet and coat rack, slowly working his way downwards towards the center of the room.

I paused and observed his movements for some moments, noting the quiet shuffle and downcast eyes. "Is everything all right my son?" I gently asked, moving towards him.

He shook his head slightly. "No, Father. I simply wanted to apologize for working late. I hope you did not worry."

Smiling I met him in the center of the room, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Do not worry, Donatello. I should have stopped in to check on you. How is your radio progressing?" I felt my fur shiver slightly as I touched him for his skin was quite cold.

He looked up to face me and a smile dawned through his eyes. "I think I might be able to get it working!"

"I am glad, my son." I paused and took a step back from him, checking across his form for any signs of illness. "Donatello?" I called his attention back to me "is it warm enough in your workshop?"

He turned his attention form the back hallway to me again, blinking and swallowing. "There is a draft, Father. I think I can patch it tomorrow if I have Raphael's help."

I gave this a small nod, and a slight smile. I encouraged Donatello to start working with his brothers on his projects several years ago. At first he constantly chose Leonardo because his elder brother has patience and a careful hand. But Raphael is the most curious when it comes to mechanics. At first this created an intense rivalry between the two brothers for Donatello enjoys building and creating while Raphael wishes to tear things apart to figure out how they work – which meant everything Donatello built Raphael wanted to destroy. Yet as they grow Raphael is learning to fix, and Donatello is learning to explore meaning that their roles are slowly reversing. I encourage this mechanical impulse in Raphael as an outlet for his anger.

"I will speak with him about it in the morning." Smiling, I started to stroll with him towards the back hallway. "Goodnight and sleep well my son."

He leaned over and gave me a light hug and a smile. "Thank you, Father and goodnight!" I could hear his weary steps head back towards his bedroom.

As I heard his door shut, I slowly walked back to the main room making a slow meditative round about the lair. I was considering the events of the day and something hung upon my mind in worry. As I went over to the coat rack I lay my hands on Donatello's scarf and long jacket, and my fur bristled. I could feel the cold still radiate from the fibers. Touching the fabric I could feel the inner heat and outer radiating cold- far more than any draft. My whiskers quivered, realizing that Donatello had been outside of the lair.

I frowned, and swiftly headed back to the bedrooms to listen at the doors of my other sons. Snoring on all accounts. I shook my head, feeling slightly sick to my stomach. My sons have patterns that I have come to recognize. Despite the frequency in which they quarrel, arguments do not sit well upon the conscience of either Leonardo or Raphael. For the last few years I have listened to Raphael work out on the punching bag in his room, or scribble drawings in frustration far past his bedtime until the anger slowly bleeds out. Leonardo will meditate or read until his irritation at his transgression abates. Yet both were sleeping peacefully tonight as if nothing had happened. I walked back to the couch and sat, wondering if anything had actually happened. Tonight's fight was like so many other nights – an outburst of frustration and a reaction of being confined pushed to the breaking point and it had played out exactly as I had expected from the morning's training.

That was when I paused and realized something. Everything this night had played out how I expected it, as if it were scripted.

Exactly as I had expected.

I thought back to Raphael's reluctance to give an answer to my last question as if he was fighting to deliver his acidic verbal blows, Leonardo's staccato anger that covered his calm breathing. Had my sons been playing me? Was I so transparent that they could distract me with an engineered fight simply because it was an interaction I expected? I wrung my hands in worry. I trust Donatello, perhaps more so than my other sons, so while I usually check up on him a few times each night, I felt it was permissible to let him work while I tended the fight. I never expected a clandestine escape from him, particularly since he has taken to heart and understood the dangers of such escapades.

In the dark of the lair I could feel the chill of the winter air settle in. My fur bristled as my stomach turned. What was going on with my sons? Why could they not speak to me? I hated the idea of them hiding something from me, and I admit my curiosity burned brightly within me. I wanted to march to the back hallway and tear their rooms apart, searching for the evidence of what they were hiding from me. But I also knew that no good would come of such actions, only resentment and anger. I tried to tell myself that I had taught them well and they had taken my lessons to heart therefore they would not hide the truth from me long. At least that was what I hoped.

Perhaps it was selfish pride, but I wanted my sons to come clean and confess to me their troubles, their struggles and their secrets. I wanted to be the parent they always confided in. And I didn't want to admit that they were growing older – growing up. Even as I pushed them to master their ninjitsu training I still expected them to react as children in many ways. I know I cannot dote upon them forever, and that at some point I need to let them forge their own ways. But I look at them day by day and still see the babies I raised. At that moment I wanted to protect them, to safeguard them from both the outside world and themselves.

In retrospect, I realize now how shrewd my boys are. They read this old rat like a book and delivered a performance fit for the stage. I am proud of them for their cleverness and perception. Yet I now pay closer attention to their actions for the very same reasons.

For I have learned that when my sons are exactly meeting my expectations something is wrong.


	4. Lesson Four

xXxXxXxXxXx

**Lesson Four: Seeking Trouble**

Early mornings are the sanctuary of the troubled parent.

I know my boys need their sleep, and furthermore they like their sleep. So I am always able to carve out a few hours in the early mornings for my own thoughts. Most days I love the stillness of the lair, the gentle sounds of snoring, and the slight chill from the passing night. I tend the furnace that keeps our home heated, brew my tea and meditate. Occasionally I pick up the things strewn about, but as my boys grow I need to do this less and less. It is the pause of the morning that allows me to collect my thoughts and prepare for the day ahead.

But that day my mind was anything but still. I was still stinging from last night's realization, and my desire to sort things out was nagging at me. I suppose it was pride that propelled me in this – wounded pride to be exact. Wounded pride and a sense of burning curiosity that had me scurrying around the rooms of our home like a frantic housemaid, compulsively straightening everything in the lair while searching for clues. I am sure that if my sons had seen me they would have either been highly amused or heavily worried – possibly both. As I think back, I realize how imprudent it was for me to lose my head like that. But paternal love is strong and paternal desire to figure out troubles and mend them can send fathers into strange fits. This was mine.

Donatello's workshop was the first room after the main ones, and I searched it from stem to stern. I did not know what I expected to find, but visions of horrible things flashed through my head - drugs, weapons, and explosives. I searched for pills or plastic baggies. I searched for bottles and lighters. I searched for bullets and razorblades. And what I found was worse than all of those.

I found nothing.

Not one thing out of the ordinary. The radio was nearly finished, and there were a few supplies scattered about from his other experiments that I had already witnessed, plus a spool of white cotton string and Michelangelo's old craft scissors. There were some bits of metal strewn about and a small bottle of shavings, an old bowl, some mostly burnt out candles, a coffee mug and a small doodle on notebook paper of two stick-figure-turtles first fighting and then dancing with the scrawled captions 'grrr' over the first and 'la la la!' over the second.

I took a step back and slumped heavily into Donatello's work chair, feeling everything from my shoulders to the tip of my tail droop. Nothing here made any sense or explained my sons' odd actions. The lack of evidence was more troubling than clear proof because it invited a father's imagination. With nothing to go on, my mind started dreaming up the worst situations possible. _What if one of them was sick and hadn't told me? What if one of them had stumbled onto something dangerous? Or gotten into drugs? What if in their growing pains they decided they hated this lair we call home? What if? What if?_ What if.

I shook my head, trying to snap myself out of it. It was no good making dark fantasies about what my boys were up to if I could not find anything but innocent evidence. I resolved to stay my mind and sharpen my perceptions in order to find a way to approach my boys about their unusual behavior as of late. But when I put my hands on the arms of Donatello's chair I found they were trembling. Like one of my son's childhood nightmares, my imagination got the better of me, and the ill feeling still lingered. I felt my cheeks burn red. Slowly, as I disentangled my mind from its worry, I realized I was overdue for my breakfast.

I returned to the kitchen where my tea was steeping in the teapot and could smell the telltale harsh scent of over steeping rising from the pale liquid. I had lingered too long in Donatello's workshop, and my mind was no less troubled for the effort. I sat, pouring myself a cup and drinking the tea despite the unpleasant taste. Somehow it seemed fitting - a bitter brew for a parent over-steeped in paranoia. It was enough to shake my mind away from the mound of troubles it was concocting and back into a sense of calm and rational thinking.

I have long held that the wisest of men are not immune from the ravages of emotion, worry and dark thoughts. They simply reflect on them internally, and come to better conclusions before they act. I have long considered myself wise - as prideful as that may sound. Perhaps I had only hoped I was wise, but in any regard I sat there for a very long time organizing my thoughts before I was once again placid and optimistic about the day ahead.

**xXx**

The morning had passed without incident and training was similarly even. I allowed my sons some free time after lunch, before setting them to their chores. Donatello came up to me with Raphael just as he had spoken of last night and asked to head off to his workshop, which I happily agreed to. It left Michelangelo describing all of the most impressive skateboard tricks he had practiced to Leonardo, trying to catch his older brother's admiration and attention. My eyes drifted towards my youngest as he reached longingly for his skateboard and I gave him a look that silently said 'no skateboarding inside.'

So his next question did not surprise me at all. "Can we go play outside?"

Outside is a funny word. For most children it means to go out to the sidewalks and streets or back in the yard. Perhaps to a park, playground or field. For my sons it means to go out to sewer shaft 31, long abandoned when that section of the subway was closed down. Despite the dank locale, it still holds the same freedom and allure as the outside. It was where I took them when they became too big to exercise in the confines of the lair, and by now it is the closest thing to a 'back yard' our home has. It even has a plastic plant (with some of the leaves missing) and a lawn chair that Leonardo and Raphael carefully bandaged with duct tape to repair the joints – both added to give it more of the feel of a true backyard.

This is where my indecision set in. On one hand I felt I should watch them constantly, to make sure they did not go astray. On the other hand, I knew that the more I followed them and appeared like I was suspicious, the more my sons are apt to stop dropping clues and hide their actions all the more. I sighed inwardly. They are good boys – I know that and have always believed it, but teenagers always feel the need to rebel against their elders. So despite the love I can feel from them, part of their independence is expressed in these secrets. I gave a slow nod of acceptance.

"Yes, Michelangelo. You and Leonardo may go play."

My youngest quite literally jumped in his place with a grin spreading across his face. "Thank you, Father!"

I gave a nod to him and watched as he picked up his skateboard before turning to my eldest. "Leonardo…" I waited until his eyes snapped uneasily to mine and I gave him a gentle smile. "Please watch over your brother and make sure you do not go beyond the bounds of the yard."

He gave a small nod, relaxation settling into his eyes. "Yes, Father."

I grinned slightly, knowing that Leonardo enjoys being given small duties of responsibility, and this works in my favor as well. When given such duties he seems to redouble his efforts to exceed my expectations, so trouble is usually kept to a minimum. Funny enough, I find Raphael reacts in much the same way when given similar responsibilities, and I usually get the same pleasant results. I considered how much both sons were alike and how little they admitted that fact harboring a secret smile while watching my sons gather their things into a bag. Michelangelo turned to me just before they hit the door.

"Father, are you gonna come see my tricks?"

I gave a small smile and a nod. "Yes, Michelangelo. I will come out shortly."

He smiled brightly again. "Awesome! Come on, Leo! Lets go!"

I chuckled as they left, waiting until the door had closed before turning my mind to faintly darker thoughts. I admit my decision to not follow them was not as altruistic and trusting as it seemed. I saw an opportunity with Raphael and Donatello in the workshop, Leonardo and Michelangelo out in the yard. It meant I could take a few minutes to look for clues before checking up on my sons.

Guilt bites my heart at this confession! I had always hoped to be the sort of parent who could openly speak with his sons and openly trust them. In their youth they were like open doors – they did not hide anything from me. As they have grown they have become more clouded, leaving me to search the answers for myself. I trust that as they grow the clouds will clear and once again we will be able to talk through any troubles. But for now I felt it was in their best interest that I invade their privacy and find out what they were hiding.

I headed down the hall to Michelangelo's room. Of any bedroom (beyond my own) I have spent the most time in his. Late night talks, quelling fears of monsters or reading stories were common when he was younger. In the past few years he is the son who most often leaves his door open – usually with a few random toys, books or other belongings spilling out and I dutifully gather these and walk them back in his room to place them where they go. So it feels familiar and not so very invasive when I enter this time. My eyes darted around, scanning a familiar clutter: piles of comic books, a few stuffed animals haphazardly tossed on the unmade bed, his desk was littered with a few letters to imaginary penpals which I will answer when he is sleeping, and a few more to actual penpals, voices from far away. All seemed to be in order, and I stooped to pick up a stuffed toy, intending to place it back on the bookshelf where it belonged when I saw a dark mass hidden under his bed.

I crept forward and pulled out a box, covered over by an old pillow. Simple cardboard and small, it was nothing I recognized. I took in a short breath, my mind filling with worry once again. All of the scenarios my mind had written in the morning came back to haunt me. Holding that breath, I took off the cover to peer at the contents.

My whiskers drooped. I was confounded. The box held nothing but a stack of old newspapers, a handful of markers, a few balls of brightly colored yarn, and some stickers. I even dug through it to make sure nothing was hidden on the bottom, but that was all it held. I placed the cover back on with a heavy frown.

Confusion settled into my heart and I sensed it bleed through to my expression. I could feel it tug at my muzzle and tighten in my eyes. I kept finding hidden secrets that led to no conclusion. Michelangelo was not one to hide things, but he was prone to flights of fancy. I wondered if this box was connected to some imaginary adventure he had concocted but was too embarrassed to talk about. Yet it did not explain the odd behavior of my other sons. The rest have largely thrust imaginary adventures to the realm of 'baby games' and prefer to focus on other forms of entertainment. I shook my head and carefully replaced the box and pillow under the bed. This nagged at me like some great puzzle I needed to unravel.

I started back down the hallway, listening to the silence settle over our home and paused in the middle of my step. Despite the guilt I was feeling at rummaging under Michelangelo's bed, it could not hurt to peer into the rooms of my other sons, could it? I gave a heavy sigh and slowly opened the door to Leonardo's den, having the sinking feeling that searching this room would bring just as much enlightenment as Michelangelo's room and Donatello's workshop.

Of all my sons, Leonardo is the one who I would most accurately use the word 'neat' to describe his bedroom. He is young yet, and the room shows instances of clutter but overall he seems to thrive on a well-ordered environment. It is very unusual to walk in and see the bed unmade or some project left out. So the first thing that immediately caught my eye was the mess upon the desk. I suppose, upon second consideration it was not so much a mess as a collection, but the large piles of haphazardly stored square bits of paper stuck out in the otherwise tidy surroundings.

I ventured closer and found a box between the bed and the desk piled to the brim with various pieces of origami. Cranes, turtles, mice and stars were gracefully crafted from a variety of collected colors and papers. I paused and straightened, scratching the fur behind my left ear.

I taught Leonardo how to fold origami several years ago, starting with the simplest of shapes. I wanted to help him find a way to feel creative and artistic, while playing to his talents. He is a very careful and ordered boy, and for some time he compared himself to his brothers. Michelangelo excels at creativity, his ideas bubbling forth just as his energy does. Raphael is highly expressive, and when he focuses his emotions into artistry he can come up with impressive results. Donatello is innovative, able to build, create and repair things with ease. Leonardo felt left out when his brothers were drawing, building and creating. I wanted to find an outlet to show him that beautiful things can come from care and patience. Origami was fitting and he took to it well. I am pleased that my lessons spurred a long-term interest for him, but I was confused as to why he would be practicing it with such vehemence.

I scooped up a small handful of the shapes, inspecting them. They showed the trademarks of Leonardo's work, each of them neatly folded with graceful lines and gentle curves to their form. There were dozens, if not hundreds of little shapes. What were they for? They did not look like practice, they looked like they were being stored for something – or perhaps created as a catharsis? Was this Leonardo's way of dealing with stress? What could they mean?

I felt a deepening frown crease my muzzle as I left the room and slowly closed the door. Odd though these finds were they did not point to any wrong behavior. Nor did they provide any conclusions. My worry was starting to be washed over by deep confusion.

My eyes darted to the other closed doors within the hallway, mentally racking up my score – which was not good. I had a heavy debate with myself about the merits of searching Raphael's and Donatello's room as well. Part of me worried that if there was a problem going on that I had to be vigilant and catch it before it hurt our family. The other part of me worried that I could be chasing around the lair searching for red herrings, working myself up over nothing. I sighed and resolved to look but catch myself before I took this search to the point of foolishness.

Donatello's room is a haven for books and bedding. Most of his interests lie in what he keeps in his workshop, which made my search quite simple. I picked a few stray books up from the floor and replaced them on the shelf, and kicking the rug to straighten it slightly. I looked in the dark corners to find only dust bunnies, and under the bed was nothing but a few more forgotten books. Somehow I was not surprised but once again I was disheartened. It seemed I would never find answers to my questions.

That left one room unchecked. I would agree that the expression 'wears his emotions on his sleeves' is very fitting for Raphael, and his room reflects much the same personality. Raphael tends to leave most everything he is thinking about, working on or worrying about laying straight out in the open. Ever since he turned ten and I allowed them to shut their doors he has kept it stubbornly shut, similar to the way he avoids his family when feeling emotional. Privacy is his way of masking what he feels. So entering into his room is, perhaps, the cruelest invasion of my search. However, it was also the most likely place for something to be hidden and overlooked for the same reasons.

I had not seen Raphael's room for some weeks, but the appearance did not surprise me any. His belongings were tossed about in a haphazard and yet comfortable way, as if everything had its place and most places were simply on the floor. A small smile tugged at my muzzle at the contrast between what Raphael considered organization and Leonardo considered organization. But reminiscing and lingering would get me in trouble. I had a job to do, so I started to carefully search about the room, tucking my nose behind chairs and into closets. And much like Michelangelo's room I stumbled upon a hidden box.

Whiskers quavering I did not know what I expected to find within, but I hoped it would be an answer. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, I hoped it would be something slightly bad so I could finally get to the root of this. Afterall, healing could begin once I knew the truth. I raised it, finding it rather heavy and slowly opened the lid.

To find a box full of packing tape.

Packing tape. I almost dropped it in surprise. It was so innocuous and mundane that it made me feel foolish for standing there and holding it as if it was a bomb. I cast my mind to my son and tried to puzzle out why Raphael needed packing tape? I wondered if it was for repairing something broken, but I had expressly told him to use glue on the table and he has duct tape to repair tears in his workout bag. I replaced the lid on the box, vaguely remembering April saying something about tape before she left one night. Shaking my head I stuffed the box back in its hiding place and covered it up again.

I walked out of Raphael's room and shut his door, continuing to the main room. I paced several times around it before I flopped on the couch, feeling ashamed and confused. My clandestine searches had not given me any information and had, in fact, turned up more questions. I wondered if I was making mountains out of molehills – were my perceptions reading into things that only I saw? Or was there actually a problem I could not get a grasp on? My skin felt dry and stretched, my brows heavy. For the first time in many years I felt old, wondering if I was losing touch with my young sons.

No, I told myself. No, I love my sons, and if anything my own mind has forced this trouble upon itself. I had to go check on Donatello and Raphael and then I would join Michelangelo and Leonardo. I would forget this foolish searching and go play with my sons.

For I learned that whenever one seeks trouble they find it – in one way or another.


	5. Lesson Five

xXxXxXxXxXx

**Lesson Five: Fortune Favors the Foolish?**

Two days had passed without incident and I was starting to wonder if the entire thing had been a figment of my imagination. I know I am as prone to feeling restless when cooped up too long as any of my sons are. Was this my reaction to the chilly weather? My mind running off on strange tangents?

Everything now seemed to peaceable and settled. As I stood in the kitchen intercepting breakfast dishes I could hear Raphael crunching cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons, and Michelangelo waxing philosophic about how it 'stunk to not get any of the good cartoons' as we only got three channels.

Raphael turned to him and I could see his face scrunch up. "How do you know those cartoons are better than these cartoons if you ain't even seen 'em?"

I chuckled to myself, watching my youngest son's mouth fall open as he struggled for an answer. The grass always did seem greener on the other side of the fence. Donatello slipped out of his chair and brought me his bowl before slinking over to the couch and flopping down beside Raphael. I could hear the two of them murmuring something to one another as the commercial break started and my youngest hopped up to carry me his plate. "Father?" He asked, looking up at me. "When Leo's done can we head over to April's?"

Ah yes, I remember their punishment from the previous day. After I had spoken to Leonardo in his room I deemed that he would help Michelangelo - this also served to keep them both safe as they walked the sewer passages to April's basement. I felt my brows lift slightly. "You are not staying to finish watching your stories?"

He shook his head slightly at the cartoons on the old TV. "They're boring. I'd rather get the work done early."

From behind me I could hear Leonardo chuckle. I watched my youngest, knowing this sentiment was rather unlike him. I could only assume that there was something even more enticing at April's shop than cartoons. I gave him a small smile. "You may go, but you must work. No watching TV at April's." I could see his expression fall, and added "You will call me as soon as you get there." I flashed my gaze over to Leonardo as well.

"Yes, Father." My eldest dipped his head in agreement.

"Then you may go as soon as you have washed your dishes."

I watched as Michelangelo rushed to the sink, dipping his plate and scrubbing it furiously before lifting it up out of the water, dripping wet, to show me. I could not help but grin at him. My eldest followed, washing his own dishes with precise and even movements before pulling his brother over to the coat rack to get bundled up. I went to the phone and called April, reminding her of my 'no TV while working' rule. I could hear her promise back to me and assure me they had plenty of work to get done. I turned to watch my sons as I hung up the phone, their faces glowing with a sense of excitement despite the labors ahead of them. Sometimes all it takes is to be in a different place to make mundane jobs seem more palatable.

As they headed out, my two remaining sons turned to me. Perhaps a tinge of jealousy in their expressions, seeing their brothers head out of the lair. Despite the fact I had promised they could go over to April's and see the shop after the work was done I felt the slight air of disappointment. I think they sensed I knew this and might be willing to cut them some slack on whatever they wanted. Donatello smiled at me. "Father, can Raphael and I go back to my workshop. We're almost finished with a project."

"How has your work been going?" I asked them, settling down in a chair.

"Good, I guess." Raphael shrugged. "We ain't blown nothing up yet. That's got to be a good sign."

I could almost hear the sigh in Donatello's voice. "We're not going to blow anything up, Raph. We don't have anything that could blow up."

"Darn." Raphael snapped his fingers with a playful smirk on his face and after a second both brothers started to laugh a bit. Ever since April brought over those learning channel tapes my boys have been interested in new and creative ways to tear things apart and destroy them. However I agreed with Donatello - I always carefully controlled what they brought into the lair to make sure it was safe.

"Yes, you may go and work. Clean your dishes first, and turn off the TV."

"Thank you Father!" Donatello jumped up, with Raphael hot on his heels. I blinked, watching them dart out of the kitchen and to the back hall, wondering what had all of my sons so worked up. For the first Saturday in years I sat without the sounds of cartoons ringing through the lair, wondering if this was a symptom of my boys growing up and getting out of the age where cartoons hold entertainment value? The nagging thought that they had been acting strangely lately crept back in, but considering their upbeat mood this morning I tried to shake it off.

**xXx**

It was late in the afternoon when I heard the door open. Michelangelo's voice was the first I heard, then Leonardo's and then a third, light pleasant and feminine. Ahh, they must have brought April with them. I had not expected her company tonight, but her presence is always welcome. I headed towards the door to see my sons and April carrying bags of things. Michelangelo handed me one of the two he was struggling to carry, both overflowing with groceries. "Hi Father, we brought food!" He smiled brightly and started carrying the second bag to the kitchen.

April turned to Leonardo who carried one bag full of books and one carried upright as if something fragile was inside. "Can you take that to Donatello for me, please?"

"Sure, April!" my eldest grinned and loped down the hallway as April turned to me.

"Hello Splinter." She greeted me warmly, walking forward. "I visited Tony at the bakery yesterday and he gave me all of his day-old breads, and I brought you a few canned goods I cleaned out after Thanksgiving. Plus a few discards from the library."

I felt my eyes glitter a bit with moisture, knowing that the food she had brought would gladly help feed four growing boys. "Your kindness is unexpected and I am very grateful. Thank you, April." I bowed my head to her slightly, feeling my muzzle tug upwards in a matching grin.

April gave a small wave as she carried her bags over to the kitchen. "Don't mention it. I appreciated Leo and Mike's help with my shop, so I figured I'd come over and bring some supper. How does pizza casserole sound?"

"Sounds like 'yum!'" Michelangelo enthusiastically called from the kitchen where he was busy unpacking his sack of baked goods. "I didn't know you could make pizza into casserole."

April gave a small laugh, taking out some canned pizza sauce and pepperoni. "My grandmother used to make it for me when I was a kid. I loved it, and my mother let me have it more often than actual pizza."

I chuckled lightly and gave a nod. "I think in this home you will have quite the fanclub with pizza casserole."

She grinned in reply and moved to take over Michelangelo's unpacking duties in the kitchen, swapping him for a heavy sack of books. "Can you take these to the library for me, Mike?"

"Sure thing!" my youngest grinned and started to lope off down the hallway after his elder brother.

I smiled a bit at his enthusiasm as I moved into the kitchen to join her. After unpacking April started to gather her ingredients and I was drying off dishes and handing them over, waiting until I heard my sons travel out of earshot before looking to our human friend. "April, may I ask a question?"

"Of course." She replied, stirring the noodles that were simmering in the pot upon the stove.

"I wanted to know if my sons behaved themselves at your store today?" I asked in quiet tones.

She turned to me, giving a small nod. "They were extremely helpful. I wouldn't expect any less. Why?"

I waved the dishrag in the air with my paw slightly. "I noticed that they have been acting a bit strange lately, as if they are hiding something. But sometimes they tell you things they do not confide in me with. I was just wondering if you noticed anything?"

I watched her very carefully, noting that her cheeks tinged the faintest degree of pink. "Splinter, they haven't said anything, and from how enthusiastic they were today I don't think that anything is wrong." She smiled easily, but I still saw the blush upon her cheeks. I tried to echo that smile, while inwardly wondering if she knew something but would also refuse to tell me.

"I am glad to hear they were helpful." I replied, turning back to the dishes. "And I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"I always hope so." I responded, my eyes meeting her for a second. I could feel the questions sink into my expression but all she offered back was a chipper but unresponsive smile.

**xXx**

I sat down to relax, smelling the comforting scent of casserole waft through the lair when something tiny crunched under my seat. I frowned, my ears pricking up at the tiny noise and I rose to investigate. Fishing around in the cushion I pulled out a single crumpled bit of origami. I curled my fingers careful around it, smoothing the crushed edges and refilling out the shape. I held in my hand a tiny origami rat, sitting up on its haunches. I felt my brows furrow together. This was more intricate than the shapes Leonardo usually folded. I immediately wondered why he would leave it upon my chair. I started to walk to the kitchen to view the piece under a better light when I noticed something upon the counter.

A second origami rat, again sitting up on its haunches was posed on the counter. This time I saw what I missed in the crunched version. It has a thin arm of folded paper pointed out from its body like an arrow. I was suddenly intrigued, and picked it up to study it. Pride welled within me at my son's artistry. I had never taught him any designs this complex so Leonardo must have taught himself how to craft these tiny animals. Pride soon gave way to curiosity. "April?" I called, intending to ask her if she knew why Leonardo had left this, but I got no answer. "April?" My voice echoed through the empty kitchen. Odd, I thought. Very odd. There seemed to be only one solution left: follow where the rat pointed.

I slowly started to walk out of the kitchen and towards the back hallway. A third origami rat was posed with its tail stuck into a crack in the wall to keep it still, it's little paw directing me down the hallway. I smiled a bit and collected it, wondering where I was being led. The lair was still quiet as I made my way towards Donatello's workshop and the back room we use as a library. On the library door was taped the largest origami rat of all, it had two paws outstretched in a celebratory 'V' shape, surrounded by four turtles – one in blue, one in orange, one in red and one in violet. I chuckled lightly upon seeing them and tested the door.

From within I could hear Donatello's voice whisper "Shh, Father's coming!" I was most intrigued, curious to the point where I held my breath as I opened the door.

My eyes widened as I first caught glimpse of the library. They had taken the large table from Donatello's workshop and set it in the middle, and it was piled with a small boxes and one very large package to one side, and a large round cake with candles glowing on top of it on the other side. The whole room was decorated with pictures, drawings, garlands and a banner. Standing just behind the table all four of my sons popped up, along with April to shout in unison, "Surprise! Happy Birthday!"

I stumbled back a step or two and felt dew comes to my eyes. What was first a wash of relief to suddenly understand my son's behavior was replaced by an immense wave of joy.

I realized that this had been a massive effort on the part of my sons. As I looked around the room I can see their stamp on everything. The sign which hung above the room read 'Happy Birthday Father!' with each letter penciled in with care and then retraced in vibrant passionate colors that sprung from the page with an eye-catching brightness. Each letter written on a single page which were all taped together with long strips of packing tape. The gift box, wrapped in paper salvaged from old newspapers but colored over with exuberant, creative doodles that danced with energy. Topped off by a bow of yarn that bloomed from bright colors and dribbled over the edges in a charmingly haphazard way.

The decorations - dozens of tiny origami animals all carefully strung together with string and hung in festive garlands. And the candles that blazed upon the cake, each one formed into bright, slightly off-kilter spirals and colored with a motley of different waxes as if they were created by some brilliant scientist as an art project.

Birthdays are an unusual concept for us. I did not have any birth records for them, and when I first brought them in I was not of the mind to pay attention to calendars. As they grew and were exposed to concepts of the world above my sons desired birthdays so I chose dates for each of them - spreading them out to make each one feel special. I chose my own rather vaguely and while I kept their special days firmly in mind I usually glossed over mine. It simply never came to mind that they might be plotting something for it.

As I sat down, grinning with delight I cast my mind back to last month when my sons had all made cards for April's birthday, and under my fur my cheeks burned hot. I had forgotten April asking about their birthdays - and mine. She had been around more often than usual these past few weeks. All the pieces slowly fell into place and I admit I felt all the more foolish for missing them.

But now was not a time to feel foolish. With candles blazing in front of me and my sons all singing an upbeat - albeit off-key - version of Happy Birthday I resolved to forget all of my embarrassment and to enjoy the celebration.

As the song finished I took in a deep breath to blow out all of my candles and in a mighty whoosh they all went out. April clapped, but my eyes flickered up to my sons who were silent, waiting wide-eyed and expectant. I saw Michelangelo's eyes trace over to Donatello, and he returned the gaze with a confident smile. There was a tiny spark atop the cake, then another, then another. Poof! All of the candles re-lit in quick succession. All four of my son's broke out in whooping and cheering, and I could hear Michelangelo whisper "Alright! You did it, Donnie!"

April groaned and turned to me to see my reaction. I watched the grinning faces of my sons in the glow of the candlelight and I felt my sides begin to shake. Slowly all the tension I had built up within my bones over the past week came out as one long belly-laugh, my eyes watering by the time I was done. "My sons, you are terribly clever." I replied, watching them grin as I plucked each candle from the cake and dropped it into a cup of water.

"We made the cake ourselves! We worked really hard on it - and even finished the basement too!" Michelangelo boasted, turning the lights on to reveal a masterpiece of messy frosting and bright confetti sprinkles. And we found out Leo's a master frosterer." He paused and scrunched up his nose. "Frostinger? Frosting-spreader!" He grinned and patted his brother on the back.

"Hey, we worked hard, too!" Raphael countered, patting the large present-box. "Don worked his shell off to get everything done in time!"

Donatello stepped forward and gave me the slight smile he gives when he wants to be heard. "_We_ worked our shells off, Raph - both of us." I noted with a hint of delight that Raphael blushed at his brother's words.

I can see how each of you came together on your own and as a team to do this, even April," I gave them all a nod. "And I could not be more pleased." I stood, gathering them all up into a group hug, feeling for a second that my heart might explode with happiness. As I released them I looked at everyone. "I think we should go eat pizza casserole and then return here and I will open my presents and eat this delicious cake." This plan was received by cheers from the gathered and I grinned lightly at April, ushering my son's to the kitchen.

**xXx**

It was a blissful evening. I was delighted to find that not only was the cake delicious, but Leonardo and Michelangelo had carefully crafted it form two layers with fudge in the middle, winning praise from their siblings. Donatello and Raphael had repaired, fixed and carefully repainted an antique lamp in the shape of a bonsai tree. I could see how tiny cracks had been mended and how the wires had been replaced. I marveled at the sense of peace and unity in our home that night. For all my worries, it was the best outcome possible.

**xXx**

Now I sit back in the early morning. The smell of cake and pizza casserole still lingers in the lair, the sound of my sons snoring peacefully fills the room. My tea tastes unusually sweet, and my mind is at rest. I am another year older and perhaps a little bit wiser from this experience. I have learned that an old rat can be fooled, especially when he thinks there is something up. I have learned that my sons are getting cleverer as they grow. I have learned that my sons have good allies and good friends. But overall I have learned that I have put all my heart and all of my soul into raising my sons and I need to trust that this love will carry them and guide them in their decisions. I trust my sons because I love them.

It is good to be a father. No, more importantly, it is good to be their father. For I have learned that no matter how foolish I feel at times, they love me just as strongly.

**xXx**

_A/N: When I first started writing this in 2008 there was a preponderance of fanfictions where one of the turtles was hiding some awful secret from the rest of his family – usually drug addiction or a fatal illness. I have this inner delight at taking an expected concept and twisting it in unexpected ways – which is where the plotbunny for this fic first originated. What if Splinter was led to believe something terrible was afoot, but it all turned out to be a master plot for something innocent and fun? _

_When I published the first chapter I wanted to make the genre Family/Humor, but I figured that would spoil the surprise. Seeing the story finished I still feel it is essentially humorous, but there are very few ha-ha funny moments. The humor comes more in realizing what is going on and looking back with an empathetic chuckle for Splinter. Hopefully it reminds the reader of similar moments of confusion with children, siblings, parents or friends._

_As always, thank you all for reading, your comments and criticisms are welcomed._

_Peace,_

_~PSG_


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